Games We Play
by The Secret Miracle
Summary: Eames has a job offer for Arthur but finds that he's going to have to get more creative with his incentives.  Separate 'verse from prior fics.  Rated M for language and sexual situations.  Slash.


There are certain points where things start to blur. The line between _this is just convenient for us both_ and _this is a permanent fix_, which was never that distinct to begin with, fading and knotting until there's nothing left but a twisted echo of those all-important defining terms, those rules of engagement. It's like the beginning of dreams. Or like the end of drunken late-night conversations over a crackling connection, through a wash of background noise that makes it clear that time-zones and oceans will always crop up in-between.

Arthur has been receiving and sending that kind of phone call a lot more often lately. And, surprisingly, he's been okay with it. There has to be a certain number of times you could do this before you have to start calling things what they are. A certain number of times you could wake up in wrinkled clothes with the imprint of a cellphone traced out on your cheek and a half-remembered 127 minute conversation in your received calls. A limit after which business partners would give way to _good friends_, at the very least. He doesn't know where that line is, but there is no way in hell he hasn't crossed by now. He's been okay with that, too. More than okay, really, if he's honest with himself. Cobb was always too distant, too lost in his own head for that type of thing and he doesn't know many others in this line of work too well.

This phone call is different. Something about Eames' voice – tired, rougher at the edges. _Jet lag?_, Arthur thinks to himself and wonders where it could be that Eames was travelling without either himself or Cobb knowing. It occurs to him so naturally he doesn't even pause to question how easily he'd picked up on it. This is more than Arthur's penchant for noticing details and forming patterns, although that is a part of it. It's another case of blurred lines. Time is wearing away hard edges, letting them fit together, smooth and synchronized as the innerworkings of a watch.

But there is something else different. It is uncharacteristically still in the background, save for the soft, distant rush of traffic and the vague wail of a siren. Arthur pauses, closes his eyes, holds the phone away from his ear to concentrate. Outside his building, he can hear a siren growing nearer and nearer, absolutely racing, reaching a howling crescendo, and then dying away into the wash of white noise.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"Depends. I've got a bottle of wine and a business proposition. Where do you _want_ me to be?"

Eames can practically hear Arthur's smile.

"You never told me you were going to be around."

A gruff, clipped laugh. More a bark than anything.

"You never asked," and a beat, then, "It's not always as if I plan these things. Sometimes fate just happens to dump me into your lap."

Arthur crosses to the window and tugs the curtains aside, still cradling the phone to his ear, and practically presses his cheek to the glass to see further down the street.

"I won't bother to give you the address of my apartment because I can see you lurking about fifty feet off. If you're going for the element of surprise, red sportcoats aren't your best bet."

He disconnects, laughing with his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, just as Eames spit the first three syllables of _motherfucker_ out like body blows.

Eames snaps his cellphone shut and walks the rest of the way to Arthur's apartment with the fingers of one hand curled around the neck of the wine bottle and the other in his pocket, jingling change in time with the song he's humming. Arthur meets him at the door, leaning against the frame and toying absently with the untucked hem of his pale green oxford. He hasn't bothered to fix it yet and that's probably more a milestone than either man will ever know. Casually, he takes the bottle from Eames and rolls it in his palm until he finds the label.

"You cheap shit," he laughs, "you couldn't have _possibly_ bought something more than a half-step up from that boxed swill you always drink, could you? You know, for a bribe, this isn't looking terribly tempting."

Eames couldn't have shown more teeth with his grin if he was trying. It's filthy, all unspoken innuendo and cock-sure swagger. It's grit and stars and blood. It is _filthy_, absolutely filthy, but Arthur'd be damned if it wasn't one of the finest things he'd ever seen.

"I'll just have to improvise a bit, then, won't I? Lucky for me, I'm rather good at that."

Stubbing out his cigarillo, he follows Arthur inside the building and into the elevator. Arthur's eyes follow Eames' fingers as he flips a coin along his knuckles. Perpetual motion. Eames is never still, always rolling his shoulders and arching to rid himself of a cramp, flicking his lighter open and closed, always with something in his hands. He may make it look casual – languid, even – but he's living like in place of a heart he's got an over-revved engine and he has to be terrified that if he pauses for even a moment, there will be no hope of starting again. Coiled tight with nervous energy. Always touching to make sure things are still there, still as they should be, solid and real and true.

Arthur leads Eames down the hall and into his apartment, idling in the doorway for a moment before crossing to grab two wineglasses. He sits at the edge of a low, cream-coloured leather couch and nods toward the empty space next to him. Eames looks almost predatory when he strides over to sit next to Arthur, taking a glass from him and cradling it in his palm.

"C'mere, let me see that," he says, voice low, as he adjusts the wine bottle in Arthur's hand, "Now hold it still."

Eames reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pocket knife, flicking it open easily. Quick, fluid motions. He buries the little blade in the cork with an easy flick of his wrist. He could tell that Arthur had nearly flinched when he saw the flash of silver so close to his long, tapered fingers. But ultimately Arthur trusted him and ultimately Arthur didn't give an inch. _(And isn't that how it always was with them?)_ It was the barest hint, a mere flutter of Arthur's lashes, but Eames caught it, knows all his tells, and he smiles as he digs the knife in deeper and hauls out the cork with an unnervingly loud _pop_.

Pouring the wine into Eames' glass, Arthur shifts, crossing his legs and muttering, "So," as if to say _let's talk about business_, which really meant _let's let things be impersonal for a while_, which probably meant _you're far too close_, which would definitely mean _things are different in person_ because Arthur doesn't just _say_ things. Everything's got a purpose and a thousand delicate shades of nuance and the stipulation that if you don't catch them all, he reserves the right to be quietly irritated for the rest of the evening. But this is just another game to Eames, and even if he hasn't got all the rules down yet, he's not going to let that stop him from playing.

Arthur's holding his wineglass up between them like a barrier and Eames knows he's dead-on, so he starts talking, talking, because it's part of that perpetual motion urge and because the more he gets moving, the more distance he can put between them and whatever ugly thing was breaking through the cracks for a second there.

"I only need one other – they're providing the architect. Really, I could've asked Cobb but he always brings a parade with him. I don't see the point in getting more people involved than absolutely need be. Any more than three's a liability. And that is _not_ how I like to operate."

Which meant, this isn't about you in particular, it's about convenience.

Which is a lie.

And if Arthur wants to be completely frank with himself, he knows it's a lie.

But it's working just a bit as he takes a long draught of the cheap, too-sweet wine and lowers the glass a fraction to meet Eames' eyes. And they keep talking but all this preamble is just another way to build a world that they can cope with. A fragile little spell, like building a dream. They know all the steps, all the words to this song, because it's old and it's familiar. Worn floorboards, been here a thousand times. Keep on going, revolve in time, everything is professional and they can slip the needles from their veins and disengage.

And they keep on talking, Eames' voice rough but steady, the wine bottle emptying between barbs about the taste. They're getting closer, heads dipped low and conspiratorial, knees touching, a careful hand on Arthur's forearm. Eames is running a finger around the lip of his wineglass, making it sing a pale, high, shiver of a note, talking faster and lower, all silver tongue and round, full tones.

Until that moment comes when Eames says, "No, I'll be easier if I just show you, instead of trying to explain, but we'll need to dream."

And they both know what's coming after that, because they've done that dance before, too. And it's frantic and animal and utterly desperate, no choreography, no tune, just the quickening beat of hearts, choked breaths and half-formed names.

Arthur takes out the machine, sets it down on the coffee table and flips the latches, looking a little lost. And yes, he's sure he wants to do this, can see it coming toward him full-force but he's caught stock-still in the face of it all. Arthur's silent, Eames speaks in torrents, insecurities are bleeding through in this coronary moment where they're each holding a needle and looking at the deep blue veins in their wrists.

Eames' hands are motionless, for once. He's waiting. He wants this to be Arthur's choice, wants to know that he wants this.

Ultimately, it's Arthur's finger on the button, a soft pneumatic hiss and a genuine smile on Eames' lips.

And their eyes close, the world running and bleeding and fading like watercolours.

* * *

It is low-lit and smoky in the casino where they are, with a vague muticoloured neon haze humming around the bar and the slot machines. Arthur needs a moment to take it all in through the constant roar of voices jingling with broken shards of laughter, through the press and ebb of bodies. He tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket and smoothes back his hair, taking a quick inventory. He shrugs and rolls his shoulders, searching for the familiar, comforting weight of his holsters, fingering the loaded die in his pocket. This is where he falls into his element, insecurities begin to fade beneath the wash of sound and body heat and energy.

Scanning the room for any sign of Eames, his eyes catch on a number of busty blondes, none of them with the right walk, the right loose swagger, and a stately older man who's holding himself in typical Eames fashion – shoulders back, head cocked to the side and a stare that'll absolutely _dissect_. Eames could be anyone, anyone at all. Without the pressure of a job and all the constraints that would entail looming over him, this is just another game.

He sees fragments of Eames everywhere. His off-kilter fashion sense in a young bartender with hair bleached frostwhite and thick tortoiseshell frame glasses. His wicked pout on a redhead with mile-long legs and a glance like a switchblade. Hears echoes of his low, golden laugh and pauses, turns but there's no one.

Arthur's edging his way through the crowd to the roulette table when there's a firm hand at his waist and a brush of lips against the shell of his ear.

"I'd offer to blow on your dice for you – you know, for luck – but there's a strong anti-fraternization policy here. Besides, I hardly think you'd need it."

It takes a second for it to register that this man, all crisp impeccable lines in his dealer's uniform, is Eames. Not because he's donned another face or swapped genders or pulled any number of other tricks he's capable of, but because it's mildly unnerving to see him looking so utterly precise, so nearly clinical. He's all black and white in a slim-fitting vest, sharp pleated trousers and bowtie, stark and harsh and clean and everything shatters into familiarity when he brings a hand up to fidget and pluck at his sleeve-garter.

Arthur turns all the way around and shoves Eames, palms flat against his chest. And there's this heartstopping half-second where Eames' smug look slips and the patrons of the casino, all projections, go silent and turn a cold, dead gaze on them. But Eames laughs, hitches up the corner of his grin and everything falls back into motion. Arthur has to laugh as well because, even if it was just in a quicksilver flash, the look on Eames' face was incredible.

He opens his mouth to speak but Eames cuts him off, still grinning like a maniac when he grabs his wrist and offers, "Buy you a drink and we'll talk more."

"What happened to the stringent anti-fraternization policy?"

Eames put on a mock-noble expression and looks mistily into the distance, like some godawful amateur Hamlet.

"Sometimes concessions must be made," he says and he doesn't know how true that is. Or maybe he does know and this is the only way he can find to make it safe, to make it easy to say.

And Arthur lets himself get pulled to the bar, muttering, "And you'd better be buying me something worth drinking this time. It's _your_ dream, so you can damn well afford it."

The cognac burns deliciously, leaves their lips tingling and high-coloured. Arthur's laughing and Eames can't help but think that with the way Arthur's eyes spark when he laughs, he'd be willing to do almost anything at all to keep him laughing. And suddenly they're sitting too close, Eames' foot propped on the second rung of Arthur's barstool and a hand cupped over his knee. Things go still for a moment while they catch their breath. Never one for silence, Eames fills the air with more talk about the upcoming job, explaining that the casino is only an approximation of what their architect had planned out but insisting that it's better than nothing in a pinch.

"The one thing I'm dead certain on is the security headquarters, which'll be located behind that door, the one just past the curtains. That's where we need to get to. There'll be a guy detained in there for unruly behaviour and he's got the information we're going to need."

"And how, exactly, are we going to get into there? The amount of surveillance here is incredible and it'll only be worse once we're dealing with an on-guard subconscious"

"You're going to be our golden ticket, Officer Charles. Reach into your pocket. Lanyard, earpiece, trifold with identification. You'll have everything you need. It'll be the same when we actually do this."

Arthur slips a hand into his pocket and finds that Eames is right. _He has damnably quick hands_, he thinks, remembering Eames' whisperlight brush at his hip earlier. Arthur will never be able to get used to the way Eames can slip nearly anything into or out of his pockets without him noticing, no matter how many times it happens. Which is precisely why Eames keeps on doing it. However, Arthur supposes, there are a host of virtues to that kind of dexterity.

"Charles is Cobb's shtick," he frowns, "and I _do_ wish you'd stay the hell out of my pants."

"Now, you don't mean that last bit. Do you, dear?"

There's no use in pretending. _Concessions must be made_ and all that.

"Not in the least."

This is the second time that night that Eames' words are waylaid somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He covers it with a long sip of cognac, then licks his lips and scratches at a patch of stubble on his jaw thoughtfully.

"You know," he says after a fashion, "I have the key to the penthouse suite."

Arthur places a hand on each of Eames' thighs and leans in toward him, eyes fluttering closed, lips parted, until they are sharing breaths like secrets. Eames tilts his chin up to close the distance between them, but Arthur pulls back, smiling as their lips just barely brush. He laughs softly and bites his bottom lip, looking at Eames through his lashes as he says, "Not anymore."

Arthur flashes the keycard triumphantly in front of Eames' face before starting off in the direction of the elevator. And all Eames can think is that they might not even make it to the penthouse bedroom. Not with those heavy-lidded, flush-cheeked looks Arthur's tossing over his shoulder. Certainly not with the way his ass looks in those closefitting heather grey Versace slacks.

When Eames sees him waiting in the elevator, leaning with a foot against the wall, he knows it'll be nothing short of a damn miracle if they even make it to the door. _Concessions_, he thinks wryly and presses himself in tight against the long, lean line of Arthur's body. Arthur hooks his leg around Eames' legs and tips his head back like an invitation. It's an absolute battle of a kiss, all desperation and inertia, Arthur's hands clutching for purchase in Eames' short-cropped hair and Eames running his hands over Arthur's ass before squeezing hard.

They pull back gasping and Arthur runs his tongue along Eames' full upper lip, grabbing a fistful of his uniform vest like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. There's this sharp, pleading cry that neither of them are quite sure who made as Eames pushes Arthur up against the wall, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood, grinding their bodies together. Arthur rocks his hips up against Eames' with as much force as is possible considering the fact that his feet are hardly touching the floor, if at all. And the handrail digging into his back isn't making things easier but that's the last thing on his mind. Especially when Arthur's hand slips between them to cup him through his trousers and his lips are trailing slow and hot along the line of his jaw. And, yes, god, this is the way it's supposed to be, determined, honest, urgent. Intimate. This wasn't just Eames' body he was offering, making vulnerable. It was his mind as well.

A chime goes off, signaling their arrival at the suite, but it sounds like it's a million miles away. Eames takes a step back, still holding Arthur and they support one another like rescuer and victim but neither can be sure who's playing which part because they're both utterly wrecked, shaking and weak-kneed. In the end, the two aren't so different and it's really just a matter of perspective. There's a hard truth there that they'll find, playing back the memories over and over. And it'll drive them back into one another's arms, time and time again, because it's only the fool who claims that he doesn't need someone to save him.

With a shivering laugh, Eames scans the cardkey he'd stolen back and guides them into the extravagant lodgings.

"Fucker," Arthur grits out, tugging at Eames' bow tie with his teeth, lips skimming along starched collar and skin.

"You're one to talk," he gasps as Arthur pulls it free and sets to unbuttoning his shirt almost savagely, forgetting that the vest is still in the way.

A soft _shhh_ against Eames' bared collarbone is his only retort. Eames closes his hands over Arthur's, stilling them to unbutton the vest and and the last few buttons of his shirt and they tumble back onto the bed, wool against bare skin. Arthur's fingers and lips skim over tattoos and scars, marks of a man who's chosen to live his life with no holds barred. Eames is stunning like this, arching his back, sleeves caught around his elbows, bruise-dark lips open in a silent cry.

Battling his way fully out of his shirt, Eames' fingers move to the buttons of Arthur's tidy suit jacket, undoing that piece of Versace armour and slipping it off. He falls back onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows to absolutely _devour_ Arthur with his eyes. Mussed hair, boyish dimples flashing wickedly at the edges of his smile, a rumpled white oxford held down by a pin-neat tone-on-tone grey paisley vest and the two brutal holsters strapped across his torso in a mesh of leather and buckles. A thousand perfect, _gorgeous_ contradictions.

"Guns in the bedroom? I knew there was a kinky streak somewhere under all those suits, luv," Eames breathes, mock-surprised, as he runs his tongue along the seam of the pebbled leather shoulder harness and up across the smooth metal grip of the gun.

"Isn't this your dream?" Arthur whispers back, his voice nearly cracking, shaping out the words through a shuddering breath and a wide grin.

Eames looks entirely salacious mouthing winding streaks suggestively along the dark leather, those stunning lips working over the tooled edges, and it's enough to make Arthur groan out his name, low and hot and absolutely _begging_.

"Ah, but I see you're not denying anything."

Eames undoes the straps of the holsters, smiling obscenely as they fall away with a soft rustle and clatter that can just barely be heard above Arthur's heavy breathing. The vest follows suit and then the suspenders, slipped off one-by-one between long and desperate kisses. Each button of the dishevelled oxford paired with a quick nip to Arthur's earlobe or a suckling kiss to the hard ridge of his jaw.

The way Arthur presses his now bare chest to Eames', feeling his heart beating hard and fast against him, the deep rise and fall of his breaths. The urgent way his fingers hook around a shoulderblade or dig into a muscled hip – it's almost as if Arthur's trying to find a way inside him. Eames braces his hands at Arthur's waist and rolls them over so that he is on top, straddling him fully.

They kick their pants off in a tangle, needing to be closer, fitting against one another for a brief moment in a way that is so fully _right_, so fragile and fleeting and astral that it almost goes unnoticed among all the fervour. Among all the sweat and muscle and tender brutality.

Another bruising kiss grounds them and Eames reaches down and unfastens the suspenders from Arthur's discarded pants, drawing them tight between his hands. He tugs Arthur's hands up over his head, pinning his wrists with a single hand. Meeting Arthur's eyes like a request for permission, waiting. Arthur nods wordlessly, arching up as Eames leans in against him to bind his wrists together with his own suspenders. The leather and cloth pulls tight in a double knot and he is aware of the bones of his wrists knocking against one another and the faint, hot thrum of his pulse.

For Arthur who lives life with such precision, so closely managed, there is a strange allure to willingly handing over that control and it sends a wave of delicious shivers through his body, building at the base of his spine. _Eames, Eames,_ he whispers, as Eames' fingers move slowly, sinuously down from the impromptu bonds, following the line of his trembling arms down to the curve of his high cheekbones, the tightswallowing cord of his neck and over the ridge of his sternum, then skipping along the subtle rise and dip of his ribs.

His hands still at Arthur's hipbones, and Eames is down on his knees between Arthur's spread legs, breath just barely ghosting over his cock, watching, watching, watching through lowered dark lashes while Arthur comes slowly undone.

Eames takes him slowly in, teasing, ignoring the half-growled pleas of _god, yes, more_ with a singlemindedness that Arthur can hardly dream he possesses. Restless hands stilled and gripping tight enough to bruise, just the infinitesimal motion of his mouth and an anchoringsteady gaze, a grounding constant in a shivering, delirious dreamscape made from chemicals and stars.

And it's like this: a slowly building rhythm punctuated with needy cries and strings of blasphemy, a thousand quaking variations on Eames' name. A dull and perfect ache building at the back of Eames' jaw. Hands that want so terribly to grasp at hair and rake at a broad, flexing back. The rustle and creak of leather as Arthur's wrists turn and flick uselessly.

Running though it all like a fine golden chain is Eames' unwavering focus. He sees every emotion flitting across Arthur's flushed face like a pageant, loves the fact that he's responsible for it all. The way Arthur's hips buck and rock beneath his tight grip drives him absolutely wild, makes him want to lower a hand to stroke himself.

When Eames does something terribly clever with his tongue that makes Arthur fall back against the bed and _writhe_, the sight of it's enough to make his concentration slip, to make him cry out.

Eames knows that Arthur is close, can see the tension building in his limbs, at the pucker of his brow, in the way he's biting down hard on his bottom lip. He knows that it would take hardly anything at all to bring him off. But he also knows just how to pause and pull back to leave Arthur hovering precarious at the very edge.

Arthur is a complete and utter mess. Hair sticking out at odd angles, thoroughly kissed lips and blooming bruises, sweating and trembling and feverflushed. All flashing eyes with blown wide pupils and vulnerable shiversmiles. He's a complete and utter mess and it's beautiful, it's perfect.

Rifling through the pockets of the trousers he'd thrown aside, Eames leans over Arthur's sprawled frame to tug at the suspenders knotted around Arthur's wrists using his teeth, slipping his tongue beneath to soothe at the places where his wrists are rubbed pink. He finds the little bottle of lubricant and spreads it over his fingers generously. Running his lips and tongue in arabesques down Arthur's raised arms, he presses the first finger in. Moving slowly, he teases until Arthur absolutely _begs_ for more, hands grasping and clutching at the air over his head. He adds a second finger, crooking and turning them deftly to drive a strangled cry from Arthur's gasping, parted lips.

There's a thrumming, electric pause as Eames withdraws his hand and spreads the lube over his aching hard cock with shaking fingertips. Their eyes lock and Eames shifts to press himself to Arthur, his legs rising to hook around Eames' back, heels digging in as he urges him to move, _yesyesyes, pleaseohgod, Eames, yes_. Breathless litany. Eames guides himself into Arthur, gasping out Arthur's name to that it splinters into a thousand silvery half-words in the air around them. They move without rhythm. They are intent and rapturous and earnest. Eames' lips close hard over Arthur's neck and his hands fight at the knots in the suspenders.

Arthur's hands slip free and he grasps fiercely at Eames' back, raking his nails over his leaping, shivering shoulderblades and leaving three spiderthin lines of blood in his wake. Eames hooks an arm under Arthur's leg, hauling his knee almost level to his chin and changing the angle in a way that makes Arthur let out a long and incoherent scream. And it's unrestrained, undignified and absolutely the most erotic thing Eames has ever seen and heard in his life.

Every motion is a yes, a glorious and inevitable, perfect _yes_. Hips rocking together in hard, short arcs, names like prayers and pleas, names reinvented in breathless tones, reimagined with an edge of desperation, names like curses and promises and dreams. Their hands find one another to clasp white-knuckled and pressing into the bed as Arthur comes off, burying his sharp cry at the crook of Eames' neck. Eames thrusts erratically, vision burned white with stars and follows with a hitched intake of breath and a nearly-sobbed _Arthur_.

They lay together in a tangle of limbs, hands still clutched together as the sun is rising, enormous and bloodred through a haze of sherbet-coloured clouds outside the wide penthouse windows. Arthur's head rests against the staccato drumming of Eames' heartbeat, lips pressing reverently to his chest, while Eames smooths back the stray, damp locks of hair clinging to his forehead.

"I think," Eames whispered after a fashion, "I think that we should order breakfast in bed and scandalize the waitstaff. Because, honestly, I could lie like this forever."

Arthur's voice was worn hoarse and raw and small from too much screaming, but it was so honest, endearing, utterly beautiful when he replied, "It's almost a pity we have to wake up soon."


End file.
